


just the way you look tonight

by goodmorningbeloved



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Sweaters, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, sorry - Freeform, thigh-fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 06:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13405851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmorningbeloved/pseuds/goodmorningbeloved
Summary: Tony's sweater shrinks. Steve's okay with it.





	just the way you look tonight

**Author's Note:**

> so i reblogged a domesticity prompt thing, and tumblr user strawberrywhaliens sent in [this adorable promptM](http://goodmorningbeloved.tumblr.com/post/169830461052/oh-my-gosh-please-consider-the-cuteness-of-a) to go with #14, which was "a shrunken sweater": 
> 
>  
> 
> _oh my gosh please consider the cuteness of a "shrunken sweater" prompt wherein whoever's sweater it is goes from huge and snuggly on them to siNFULLY TIGHT and person b can't even begin to handle the change from cinnamon bun to s i n n a m o n b u n sjsjsjjsjd i mean. just imagine. the in he re n t pa n i c at being aroused bc of smth that once gave them inner peace and is now tearing it to shreds._
> 
>  
> 
> it devolved into smut. is there even any domesticity here? who knows! i wrote this steel-faced in the library and if i try to reread now, i'll probably explode. consider this a late present for the holidays lol
> 
> title's from sinatra's "the way you look tonight"

Sweaters are the bane of Steve’s existence. They cling too tight around his shoulders, which is...well, just like every other shirt of his, really, but sweaters are also thick and hot and stifling, none of which are redeeming qualities. 

But then sweaters become part of Tony’s Christmas plans, so he has to suck it up. Because wearing the damn ugly things makes Tony happy _\--_ not high-on-coffee happy, not on-a-science-buzz happy, not finally-finished-a-project-for-R&D happy. Tony’s just... _happy,_ a simple happy that makes his eyes light up, makes him bite his lip and struggle to contain a smile. If wearing some horrific cloth-and-tinsel Frankenstein’s creation makes Tony  _happy_ , then Steve feels like he could wear one every day. 

This year, it’s  _I’M ON THE “I TRIED” LIST_ bedazzled crookedly on yarn, green on half red and half white. Tony was considerate enough to buy their sweaters one size larger—something about baggy sweaters being _in style_ right now, Steve’s not sure, he’s just grateful that he doesn’t have to drown in cotton throughout presents-opening. 

Bruce is wearing the white  _NICE LIST_  equivalent, while Clint’s is a patchwork  _NONE OF THE ABOVE_. Tony had somehow convinced Thor to lend him one of his capes, style it into a poncho, and lace it with tinsel and little bells, _and_ wear a headband of reindeer antlers. Natasha barely managed to escape the matching-sweater trap because she had ordered hers a month early, and Tony had liked hers too much to replace it.

“I really hope Fury calls us in for a mission right now,” Clint says loudly, throwing back the last of his eggnog before draping himself over the back of the couch and promptly invading Natasha’s selfie space.

Natasha makes an irritated face, then adjusts him so his upside-down face is at least visible and not just his belly button. “Let’s show him how ready we are, just in case.”

Steve watches on in amusement as they take the picture, and then Clint holds out her shirt flat so Fury would be able to read, _GRINCH DON’T STEAL MY VIBES_. Nat’s the least Grinchiest of them all, so Steve assumes the joke is in Fury being the Grinch. (Which he thinks is a little bit untrue, too. He’s seen the little presents littered around employees’ desks at SHIELD.)

“Friends, when will the present-opening commence?” Thor joins them from the kitchen, looking unbothered by the wobbling antlers around his head—and rightly so. Steve’s never seen someone pull off a cloak and antlers as well as Thor. (Last year, Tony claimed _he_ could. Steve thought he had escaped that particular fate by kissing Tony into stupefaction, and then he had woken up to a picture message from Tony of him dead asleep, wearing the reindeer antlers and his nose colored in red.)

“Tony said he shouldn’t be more than five minutes,” Steve admits. That was five minutes ago. “I think he’s still getting his presents.” There are no actual presents under the tree. Ever since the first year they celebrated the holidays together and Natasha proved herself eerily adept at guessing presents, they had taken to hiding presents until opening day.

“If this is punishment because we outvoted him to open presents a day early,” Clint says solemnly, “it’s not going to work.”

“If he falls down the stairs and has to go to the hospital because he didn’t want to ask any of us for help carrying down his presents, I’m going to make him open my present before he goes to the hospital,” Natasha says without looking up from her phone.

Steve wanders within the frame. A little Santa hat filter appears on him. Nat takes a picture before he can duck out, and he sees the little smirk she’s wearing.

“What _is_ he doing?” Bruce wonders aloud.

They all know Tony better than to think he’s forgotten. Methodically, he had cornered them one-by-one that morning and wrestled them into their respective sweaters.

“Missing out on the eggnog,” Clint declares, swirling another glass of eggnog. (He’s the only one who likes eggnog.)

“I must know when to call down my presents,” Thor says, sounding concerned.

“Call— Call down your presents?” Bruce echoes, sounding equally concerned.

“Any animal rooms will probably take at least two weeks to build into the tower,” Steve says, mostly joking. “The gym renovation still hasn’t finished.”

Thor instead appears increasingly troubled. “…Noted.”

He drops down on the couch next to Natasha, who distracts him with more of her filters. Figuring that it won’t be long before Clint is trying to wheedle his way into opening presents early, Steve rises and moves for the stairs, calling up, “Tony?”

He sees a suspicious flash of movement at the top, then a _thud_. 

He frowns. “Tony?” he repeats, starting on the first several stairs.

Tony makes himself known with a declaration of, “I have a problem.”

Steve pauses. “Usually that’s already an unspoken given,” he says.

“Ha ha,” Tony says. “It’s…a big problem.” A pause. “Or— a small problem? Technically? Ugh.”

“If you’re not coming down, all your presents go to me by default!” Clint calls from under the tree.

“Over my dead body!” Tony shouts back, but the fact that he isn’t bounding down makes Steve worry a little, which is ridiculous. He saw Tony less than half an hour ago. Surely Tony isn’t capable of concocting chaos in half an hour. (But then Steve thinks of how Tony would probably take that as a challenge and pushes away the thought.)

“What’s wrong, Tony?” He walks up the rest of the staircase. Up here, the lights are all off, so at first he only sees Tony’s faint figure leaning against the wall, arms crossed and shoulders a little hunched. It reminds Steve immediately of the time he came back from a mission with a stab wound and tried to hide it from Steve.

“Are you hurt?” Steve asks immediately then, closing the distance between them.

Tony makes a low keening noise, then pitches himself into Steve’s arms about halfway there. “It’s ruined.”

“What? Your shirt? I know how to get blood out of it, it’s—”

“No, what? I meant _Christmas_.”

Steve pulls away half an arm’s length and peers down at him. “Because you’ve been stabbed?”

Tony frowns. Then he appears to reconsider. “…Has Clint been teaching you new euphemisms for sex?”

It doesn’t make sense for a while—and then Steve grimaces when he remembers how Tony had exactly convinced him to wear the sweater that morning. “… _No_.”

“Oh, good. That one would have been below you.” Tony sighs and steps away completely, leaving Steve to grasp for empty air where there was once a perfectly warm, compact being in his arms. “My shirt’s ruined. And so are the holidays. Christmas is canceled, effective immediately.” His arms curl around his midsection again, and Steve frowns and tries to draw them away. Tony’s sweater seems to be red, which would make blood difficult to discern, but—

“It looks just fine,” Steve observes.

“Looks?” Tony tilts his head up. Something teasing slips into his tone. “You sure you don’t mean _feel_?”

Steve rolls his eyes, then gives a last pat on Tony’s chest. “You scared me. I thought you’d really been stabbed.”

“… _Why_ would that be your first assumption.”

“It will be for as long as you keep trying to hide stab wounds from me.”

“Once! It was _once!_ ”

“Once too many.” Steve crosses his arms obstinately. He feels a little ridiculous arguing in a dark hallway with his boyfriend doing his best to shrink in on himself, but he'll be damned if he moves before Tony gives him an answer. “Now what’s really wrong?”

“…My sweater. I washed it, and it shrunk. I’m smelting down our washing machine and turning it into a stool so it can literally kiss my ass—”

Steve reaches over Tony’s head and flicks on the light switch so he can tell his boyfriend already that he looks _fine_ and he can come downstairs already or Clint will be too far gone on the eggnog and Natasha will have already guessed everyone’s presents for th—

A full-body freeze routes through him when the lights come on. Tony makes an offended noise and raises both hands to shield his eyes, which means Steve has a good view of the rest of his body.

Ugly Christmas sweaters are meant to be ugly. That’s their _purpose_.

Objectively, Tony’s sweater _is_ hideous. It’s green on red, proudly baring _TOP OF THE NAUGHTY LIST_ in crooked letters.

When it’s tightly fitted on Tony like some _second skin_ , it’s…anything but. The fabric hugs his figure perfectly, accentuating his shoulders and arms and stopping just a little past his elbows, leaving his forearms bare. That’s— That’s have never been a particular _Thing_ for Steve, but when it comes to Tony, it’s as tantalizing as a tease of skin would be. 

Maybe he just has a thing for Tony.

“ _Hell_ ,” Steve murmurs, feeling the rest of his breath leave him in a way that only Tony can make happen. He puts out a hand, fingertips brushing over Tony’s collar as he diverts at the last second and cups the back of his neck, _safely_ , instead. “Where did you get this?”

“Same place I got everyone else’s,” Tony says defensively. He lets Steve push him—god, sometimes it’s so _easy_ to nudge him around a little—back against the wall. “You’re not upset about this,” he accuses. “Of course. _Your_ sweater’s just fine.”

“Your sweater’s just fine too,” Steve mutters. “But you’re not going downstairs in it.”

He swallows down Tony’s indignant noise with a kiss, or a claim—Steve’s not entirely sure which one he’s going for, because there’s no one to claim Tony _from_ , he just— he _wants_ , and Tony surges against him briefly, seeming all too willing to give. Then he lets Steve crowd him against the wall entirely, sighing a soft little sigh that goes straight down to join the heat between Steve’s legs.

“I knew I could change your mind about the sweaters,” Tony says triumphantly when Steve pulls away to suck a mark into his neck.

That’s…the claiming thing. Steve’s always a little embarrassed about it afterwards, no matter how loudly Tony calls it _hot as all hell, please never stop doing it_ , but in the moment it feels like the right thing to do. And Tony’s not complaining.

“Guys, I want _presents_ ,” Clint shouts from below.

“You’re holding up presents-opening.” Tony’s eyes are delighted despite it.

“Noted,” Steve drawls, hefting him up from the floor. Tony makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a squeak and wraps his legs around his waist, holding on as Steve shoulders the bathroom door open and kicks it shut behind them. “Better move fast, then.”

“Steve—” Steve kisses him again, open-mouthed and urgent and a touch too lewd — damn it, Tony’s rubbing off on him — and he feels Tony’s legs buckle when he sets him down. “Now—?”

Steve turns him around, pushing him right against the edge of the sink and grinding his half-hard cock against Tony’s ass.

“Oh,” Tony says. “Now, yeah, now—”

Steve ends up chuckling into the back of his neck at the reaction, and Tony grumbles and plants both hands on the sink and rocks back against him emphatically. “No laughing,” he says. “You can’t manhandle me and get me all hot and heavy and then start being cute, that’s not fair.”

“You say I’m always cute,” Steve says with an innocent kiss to the top of Tony’s spine, vulnerable where the neckline of the sweater slips just so.

He’s rewarded by a small shiver from Tony. Through the mirror, he sees how Tony blushes all the way to the tip of his ears. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over how easily Tony — bright, loud, _confident_ Tony — is flustered by the most innocent of touches.

“Cute,” Tony agrees, “with a mean streak. I sure know how to pick ‘em.”

“Get your pants off,” Steve murmurs into the side of his neck this time, and Tony curses his name and reaches down. Steve moves his hands from his hips to his waist, recalibrating. Tony shimmies a little as he tries to push the waistband of his sweatpants down. Eventually Steve slicks up a hand to help him, giving a soft groan when he feels how hard Tony’s become too. He forgoes the waistband entirely, just slipping his hand past and taking Tony’s cock in hand.

Steve curls his fingers barely tight enough and strokes him, base to tip. “ _Mmh._ ” Tony arches away from him slightly, like he can’t decide whether he wants the contact or not, and ends up sliding his hands further up the sink’s edges and bending slightly. Steve murmurs a low encouragement, bringing his other hand up Tony’s back, along the fabric of that sinfully tight sweater.

Steve thumbs over the head of his cock, delighting in the pleased noises he continues to draw out from Tony. He likes this, likes Tony so warm and lax in his arms, finally letting Steve take care of him for once.  “You’re gorgeous,” Steve whispers, teasing him with another slow, tight stroke. “Beautiful. Best thing I’ve ever held, Tony, _God_.”

“Steve— _please_.” Tony moans and thrusts weakly into his hand, but he seems content to let Steve dictate the pace afterwards. Steve feels a rush of love at that kind of _trust_ and tightens his hand, twisting it with each upstroke.

He brings Tony off with a muffled groan, promptly making a mess of the front of his sweater. “Oh, you _ass_ ,” Tony pants, “you did that on purpose, didn’t you—” He breaks off into a small whine when Steve pumps him a few more times, his hand slick and messy with come. Tony pushes up from the sink, pressing against Steve’s front and mindfully grinding against the still-present problem in Steve’s pants.

“Good colors on you,” Steve mumbles into his neck. He’s definitely talking about the red, not the sight of his own come on Tony, because— he’s _not_ possessive, all right?

“All right, Cap,” Tony hums, giving a slow, lazy, _promising_ roll of his hips. “What can I do for ya’?”

…Maybe a little.

Steve ruins the sweater further by dragging his come-slick hand up Tony’s chest and using it to pin Tony back against him. “Nothing at all,” he soothes, his other hand working his cock free from his own pajamas. He’s unable to stop from stroking himself a few times, biting his lip hard as he tugs Tony’s sweatpants low enough to reveal the curve of his ass, and _fuck._ “Just stay like this, Tony, yeah, that’s perfect.” He grinds against him shamelessly, the length of his cock slipping, lewd and slick, between Tony’s cheeks.

“S’not even dirty talk,” Tony gasps, hands stuttering along the sink for a good grip, “but you’re so fucking good at that, how the hell—”

Steve gives him a final moment to steady himself before he guides his cock between Tony's warm thighs.

“Ohhhh, _fuck_ ,” Tony exhales, one of his hands flying to Steve’s forearm and just—gripping, curling and uncurling as his thighs clench reflexively around Steve. 

“Mhm.” Steve presses kisses into the back of his hair. He can’t physically feel any space left between them, but it also doesn’t feel _enough_. “Press a little tighter, sweetheart.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Tony mewls like no one’s ever fucked his thighs before—which is both satisfying (he’s finally, _finally_  taking one of Tony’s firsts) and downright unfortunate (because Tony’s got _amazing_ thighs).

Tony’s head falls back against his shoulder, baring his neck for Steve to leave more marks on. The pressure around his dick tightens the right way, and Steve huffs out a groan, shifting his hips back and pushing back in.

It’s like the dam’s been opened and Tony can’t stop making noises—little things, almost _adorable_ sounds, really, and Steve can’t get enough; every snap of his hips is an effort to draw out more, and Tony doesn’t disappoint. He squirms while Steve fucks him, the blush creeping down his neck now.  “Look at you.” Steve’s voice is low and wrecked with desire, but his eyes are riveted on their reflection. It’s almost modest—just of Tony waist-up and Steve standing close behind him. It would take an active imagination to picture the rest of them—Tony’s come cooling over his sweater, his pants rucked low, Steve rutting between his thighs.

This way, there’s really no worry about hurting him, so if Steve eventually takes him by the hip and begins guiding him backwards to meet each of his rough thrusts—well, he’ll kiss the chafing better afterwards.

He must accidentally promise this out loud, because Tony’s eyes fly open, and it’s that sight of him caught off-guard but undeniably aroused that has Steve groaning out his orgasm.

He thrusts lazily through it, tipping Tony’s cheek sideways so Steve can kiss him. He can feel his own come adding to the slick down Tony's trembling thighs. He feels filthy.

“Hmm.” Tony nuzzles into the kiss. He’s always so— so relaxed after, the lines of his face gone all soft with open affection. “Let’s do that again.”

“Maybe in bed next time,” Steve mumbles in agreement, pulling back slowly before Tony’s movements spur him into an impromptu second round.

Tony wriggles around in his arms, and Steve brackets him in against the sink and kisses him slow and lazy. After a moment, Tony pulls away, his gaze wandering down without any rush. He hums and lifts his leg slightly.

Steve encourages him to lift it higher, until Tony’s almost sitting on the sink, his legs spread in front of Steve. The sight of his flushed skin makes Steve feel faintly guilty.

“None of that,” Tony chides, flicking him on the nose. “I loved every second of it.”

“Gonna make it better,” Steve promises anyway, pressing another kiss to his lips before dropping down to his knees.

“What do you m—mmmh _oh_.”

Steve smirks at the reaction, then presses another kiss to the inside of Tony’s thighs.

“You’re gonna _kill_ me,” Tony bemoans, head tipping back against the mirror with a dull sound.

Steve chuckles, which prompts an interested twitch from Tony’s cock, just inches from his lips.

But, as promised, he first goes on to kiss his thighs better.

 

 

 

Time, apparently, means nothing when he’s with Tony.

They reemerge from the bathroom to the sounds of Christmas music blasting loudly downstairs. Steve assumes they’ve just gone ahead and opened presents without them until he checks his phone. 

_FINE YOU WIN,_ reads Clint’s text. _WE’LL WAIT TIL TOMORROW TO OPEN PRESENTS OKAY._

“A- _ha._ ” Tony grins, doing an utterly ridiculous dance in his starred-and-striped boxers. “Just as _planned_.”

Steve chases him laughing into the bedroom.


End file.
